


Woodcutters and Warriors

by TruebornAlpha



Series: Ab Aeterno [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Character Death, Curses, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Heartbreak, Historical Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Immortality, M/M, Magic, Prince Scott, ProScott, Second Chances, Serial Killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4747088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TruebornAlpha/pseuds/TruebornAlpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hundreds of years ago, the Witch King burned for his crimes and faded into legend, but Scott pushed on, fleeing his lost legacy with a broken mind and heavy heart until a curious woodsman with no self-preservation forced him to stop.</p><p>In the present day, a serial killer stalks the streets of Beacon Hills and only Detective Stilinski and his partner Malia Tate can stop him before he strikes again. </p><p>A part of Ab Aeterno, a love story across lifetimes and throughout history between two idiot best friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woodcutters and Warriors

For the first time since the harvest soured, King Scott’s kingdom celebrated. It didn’t take long for the hungry, the beaten and the furious to raid the castle. The Witch King’s death was a relief, and the pyre burned into the night, a beacon of hope and a symbol of triumph. With the demon dispelled, their bad luck had to have been broken. Yet the last of the stragglers brought with them a tale that set dread into the kingdom, for as the flames died and the smoke dispersed, the charred remains in the center of the courtyard stirred. They gave way to a monster.

More bone than flesh, the young man dragged himself through splintering wood and stone, deaf to the terrified screams that echoed into the night and blind to anything but his own pain. He fled to the woods in desperation, each step an agony as his body knit itself back together. It was impossible to keep track of the years that passed, with Scott pulling himself through the same paths he’d spent countless days chasing his best friend until they were unrecognizable. Hunger cut through his senses, and thirst left him hollow, but it was anger that roused him from his slumber, even dulled as it was by a tired hopelessness that left him with no answers. He’d been denied the darkest mercy, and there was nothing for him now. He walked until his legs gave way, and crawled until his bones threatened to break. 

The world around him was no longer familiar, and the air shifted as seasons gave way to one another. Trapped in his own mind, Scott lost himself, slipping into sleep when he was lucky and delirium when he wasn’t. The former king din’t immediately notice the warm furs that wrapped around his shoulders or the calloused hands that pulled him to his feet.

When Scott woke, the cot beneath his head was soft, and the blankets that swaddled him were warm. He bolted upright with a garbled yell, hurling the them at the figure that hovered over him. The man shrieked right back at him, brandishing a broken branch like a club. Scott wedged himself against the wall, chest heaving as the two stared at each other in shock.

“ _WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU_?”

Scott opened his mouth to speak, struggling to find the words. When was the last time he had spoken to anyone? Months, years? Decades? It was like he’d forgotten how, making low guttural noises as the stranger lowered his weapon.

The Woodsman was young, taking his first steps from youth into manhood. He was clean shaven, cheeks flushed an angry mottled red and made Scott suddenly aware of his own snarling, tangled beard that had grown all the way down to his navel. Suspicious eyes watched Scott like he was some kind of dangerous, feral creature as the young man edged around him to the other side of the cabin.

“Don’t make me regret saving you. Bodies tend to attract predators and I have a hard enough time making ends meet without worrying about a wolf pack being drawn to the area. I’m not a tasty snack.” He brandished the club at Scott again in warning. “Just in case you were thinking about it.” He ladled a few spoonfuls of cooked roots, meat scraps, and a crust of bread in a bowl and cautiously held it out to the dirty drifter. Scott sniffed the air, stomach contracting painfully before he snatched it from the Woodsman’s hand and stuffed the food into his face as the other man recoiled.

“Wow…guess you really must have been hungry. Don’t make a mess!”

Scott licked the plate clean, fingers curling around the edges of the plate as he looked up at his would be savior and the little cabin that sheltered him. It was a humble place, held together with roughhewn logs and mud. A hearth burned low and warm in the corner, throwing flickering light through the one room and he thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. No palace could compare to this sanctuary. “Thank you.” He grunted, his voice hoarse from disuse.

“Yeah. Well.” The Woodsman started, pursing his lips as he spooned out another serving of broth as he squinted at his guest with a critical eye. He totally deserved gratitude for being generous and all that. He just hadn’t entirely expected. “Were you robbed? Twice?”

“No.” Scott barked out a laugh, hunching his shoulders as he held his bowl close, bending over it like he expected the stranger to take it away. The forest hadn’t been kind to him. He could see the bones in his wrist clearly and cringed at the thought of what the rest of him must look like. He scratched at his beard as he took slower, more measured sips of his meal, letting its comfort slowly settle through him. “Set me on f-fire.”

“Next you’ll tell me the fae took you.”

“Maybe.” 

It was the Woodsman’s turn to laugh. Scott busied himself with his dinner so he didn’t have to see. His host was still holding his makeshift club, and he didn’t have the energy to tell him that his stance was all wrong. His belly was stuffed, and Scott was convinced he was going to be sick but he cautiously held out his plate for more. The Woodsman obliged, but slowly.

“Who are you, grey beard?”

“Grey?” He tugged at the end of his beard with a frown. There should be grey in it by now, right? If it had managed to grow so long, it must have been a long time since he stopped caring about what he looked like. It was still jet black, not a single grey hair or streak to be found. His name didn’t mean anything anymore, he doubted that after so long that it would be recognizable. He was hundreds of miles of looping, disjointed miles from his kingdom by now. Maybe it had been so long that even his own people would have forgotten him. That would be a blessing.

“I’d tell you in exchange for some clothes? Maybe a place to rest for the night?”

“That’s a stupid sort of deal.” The Woodsman scoffed, back to being suspicious. “I’d be losing out when I could just make up some dumb nickname for you. Like…Beardy.”

“Well, what’s your name?”

“Why should I tell you? You didn’t tell me!”

The young man looked so offended that Scott had to laugh again. “It’s only fair I have something to call you too.”

“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce my name with that funny accent you have anyways, it would be a lost cause.” The Woodsman scoffed, sniffing his nose at the other man.

“I have to call you something though, and one bad nickname deserves another. I could go with…Woody? You  _are_  a woodcutter, right?”

“I’m a lot of things.” Woody tried to cross his arms haughtily and almost smacked himself in the face with his club. “That’s a stupid name.”

“It could be worse?”

“I suppose.” Woody was entirely unconvinced.

Scott couldn’t remember the last time he smiled. It hurt the corners of his mouth when he tried. “I was serious about the clothes. Just let me rest for a few hours and then I’ll be on my way. You won’t have to trouble yourself with me again.”

“Maybe if you tell me a better story, maybe then, I’ll consider it.” Woody scoffed in distaste, wagging the branch at his guest in what was almost a threatening manner. Scott was tired, disoriented and exhausted, but Woody was really, really bad at this, and with a quick snap, he jerked Woody’s grip on his weapon loose, snatched up the branch, and bopped the Woodsman on the nose with one of the dying leaves that clung to its home. Woody fell over and screamed.

“It will be a good story. I promise.”  Scott dropped the branch before his hand started to shake.

“What are you?!” Woody squeaked, barely trying to bully his voice into something less shrill. “Some kind of knight?”

“… Maybe.”

Woody only grumbled a little as he swaddled his guest up in old clothes and helped him closer to the hearth. Scott crooned in the warmth, snug in an extra blanket that drooped past his bony shoulders. He told the Woodsman about two young boys who were incredibly brave and incredibly foolish, and how they would one day own the world until evil found their doorstep. He spoke until dawn, in slow and measured tones, surprised that he still knew so many words. Water felt like a soothing balm for his overworked throat, but Scott didn’t realize he’d drifted off until he was jerked awake.

“Hey. Hey!” 

Scott flailed, and Woody laughed when he landed on his butt. He was gentle when he helped the former king to his feet, making sure he didn’t trip over himself. “You’re never going to tell me what happened to Prince Blackheart that way. Did he get punched in the face?”

“I - what?”

The Woodsman laughed again, but decided it was best if he helped him to bed. “A bard, you must have been a bard. Come, get some rest. You’ll have to tell me the rest of your story tomorrow if you want a chance to leave with the clothes on your back.”

“Deal.”

He let the Woodsman lead him back to the lumpy, straw-filled bed and draw worn blankets and warm fur over him. Scott couldn’t ever remember sleeping anywhere so comfortable. The other man made himself a nest close to the hearth, still wary about sharing a bed with a stranger. Scott tried to thank his host, but he wasn’t sure the words made it through before sleep claimed him. At least he was too exhausted for even the nightmares to find him.

The afternoon sun slanted through the windows when the king finally stirred, stretching tired, aching limbs beneath the soft furs until his joints cracked. He stumbled out of the cabin to relieve himself, slashing water from the rain barrel on his face to scrub some of the grime from his cheeks and tried to make himself feel human again. The woodsman handed him a hunk of cheese and bread, watching him tear into both with ravenous hungry.

“You’d better slow down there, Beardy. You might end up eating one of your fingers.”

Scott brushed the crumbs from his beard and grinned. “That reminds me, you wouldn’t have a sharp blade, would you? I should probably do something about this.”

With a suspicious squint, the woodsman handed his guest a sharpened razor and watched in stunned surprise as Scott scraped the years from his jaw. He rubbed a hand across his smooth cheek thoughtfully as Scott studied his reflection in the cloudy mirror. Every tiny nick from the blade healed before it could even bleed, but he at least recognized himself like this.

“Holy shit!” The woodsman leaned close to get a better look at his face. “You’re _young_! I thought you were some old man.”

“I am.” Scott said truthfully, frowning at his reflection again. At least, he should have been. He should have been dead decades ago, but he still looked like the young man who struggled to balance a crown on his head and a kingdom on his shoulders. Whatever this curse was, it kept him trapped in a life that wasn’t his anymore.

Suddenly, there were two other hands on his face, and Scott tripped as he was yanked into Woody’s chest. He could see right up Woody’s nose. “No, you’re young! You’re my young! My age! How did you grow a beard that fast? Can you teach me? Look!” He craning his neck as far as it would go without falling over. “I can’t grow anything!”

Scott laughed so hard, his breakfast nearly came back up, and the Woodsman had no trouble smacking him around. Then the Woodsman put him to work. It became their routine. In the afternoons, Scott helped his host with his chores, chopping firewood and learning the ways of the forest. Woody was sharp with his criticism and frequently complained that Scott had never worked a full day in his life, but was laughably silent once Scott offered to teach him the way of the sword. In the evenings, they huddled together as Scott recounted the tale of his long and eventful life. Slowly, he regained his strength, finding his barrings once more. The world was different from the one he once knew, but similar enough that leaving didn’t mean his death. It just meant losing his savior.

“Tell me about the jousting matches.”

“Again?” Scott startled, looking away from the stew he was brewing by the fire. Woody was flopped on his back, his hands under his head, but he could still nod.

“Yes, I liked that story, the one with the runaway horse.”

“You already know that one.” Scott laughed. “You already know all my stories.” The good ones, at least, the ones that made him laugh when he remembered, but Woody knew one or two of the sad ones, as well. His expression crumbled, and Scott had to shake himself. This was for the best. This had to be for the best. “I think that’s enough for a set of clothing, don’t you?”

It took Woody a second to catch his train of thought, and when he did, he was furious. “What? No! Why?!”

“Because I’m cursed.”

“Oh.” Woody replied, calming so quickly Scott startled. “I know.”

“WHAT?!” 

Woody couldn’t get over how nice it was to have the upper hand.

“Three nights ago, while you were cutting wood,” he snorted. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you  _slicing your arm up.”_

“I- I…” Scott stammered and blushed, opening and closing his mouth like a dumb fish, and Woody couldn’t stop grinning. He’d almost been afraid of this! 

“So what are you? A changeling? A little too ugly to be fae, according to legend.”

“No!”

“An ogre? You smell like one.”

“No I’m not an ogre! I could be a demon for all you know!”

“Please.” Woody fixed him with such a pointed glare, Scott flustered, and nearly knocked their dinner into the fire. “You would be the worst demon.”

“I could be the best demon! You wouldn’t even suspect a thing, I’d be secretly evil or something.” Scott wasn’t sure why he was trying to argue the point, but something needled him that just wouldn’t let the Woodsman win.

“You’d be the best at being the worst.” Woody gave his shoulder a light shove. “You almost lost your entire hand at the wrist trying to chop up enough firewood, I was surprised you still have all your fingers.”

“It was an accident.” Scott muttered before flashing the other man an embarrassed grin. “You’re not scared of me? Most people would have run straight to a priest after seeing like that, or at least tried to whack me with another tree branch.” Or set him on fire. Scott couldn’t quite shake that image or the way his whole body shivered with remembered pain as he burned inside and out. People were terrified of things they couldn’t understand and magic was at the top of the list. They’d called him the Witch King, maybe that’s what he’d been all along even though he’d never known it. He couldn’t remember making any pacts with the devil, but perhaps this was his punishment for being unfaithful in his vows and for the blood on his hands.

“So are you an ogre?”

Scott laughed, knocked out of his painful reverie. “No! I’m…I’m just a person who’s been cursed somehow. I don’t know how or why or what I can do to break it. I didn’t even notice when it started until it was too late. They called me a witch, I’ve been running ever since.”

The woodsman studied Scott before speaking, noticing the lines at the corners of his eyes and the worry drawn across his brows. “Nah, you’d be a piss poor witch too. Aren’t they usually more the naked girls frolicking in the moonlight kind of thing anyways? You’re not scary enough and you haven’t once tried to get me to sell my soul to Satan.”

“So what am I then?”

“I dunno, but I plan on finding out.” Woody said determinedly. “I’m good at mysteries.”

“You couldn’t figure out who kept stealing your breeches when you left them by the river.”

“You be quiet before I kick you out on your ass.”

Scott couldn’t stop grinning, but neither could he take his eyes off the Woodsman, watching him the whole night with a besotted sort of devotion. It made Woody squirmy and unhappy, made him cross his arms over his chest and turn his nose up, but it also made him bump shoulders with Scott and crowd into his space. Woody never really stopped being surprising.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked, brows furrowed as the other man draped himself across his bed, the same bed he’d been more than happy to give up for the entire duration of Scott’s stay.

“I don’t know where you get off, thinking you can take over my home and never give back my bed.”

“Oh. Well I’ll just-”

“Get over here. There’s room for two.”

Scott froze as the other man pulled him closer, arms wrapped around the once king like they were actual friends. Like Woody trusted him. He hadn’t been touched since Theo had soothed him from his nightmares before becoming a nightmare of his own. He sighed against the other man involuntarily, closing his eyes with a feeling almost like relief.

“Is this okay?” Woody asked, an unusual note of sincerity in his voice.

The other man nodded, resting his face against Woody’s shoulder. It was strange how much he missed this, he hadn’t realized how much it meant to be held until he’d spent so many years without contact at all. The people he hadn’t been able to avoid had feared him and with his wild appearance. He didn’t blame them. It was easier to stay in the forest, walking mile after mile, year after year. Hunger and exposure would leave him dead for long stretches at a time before the curse would send him stumbling back to his feet with no concept of the time that had passed. “It’s okay.”

He fell asleep curled next to his friend, a real friend and the only one he had in the world. That night, the dreams didn’t take him and he woke rested with Woody’s face smooshed uncomfortably into his armpit.

“Auuugh, gross! Get up, you could kill a bull with that breath.”

The Woodsman cracked open one eye and huffed directly into Scott’s face. “Good, then a cow like you should keel right over. Now hush, the sun isn’t even up yet.”

Scott laughed, flustered, shoving his hand into Woody’s face. The Woodsman swatted at it. A beat passed, and when Woody moved forward, it was with purpose. In one quick swoop, he had Scott pinned to the bed, his face scrunched up in concentration. Then he hugged him. It was a mighty hug, worthy of the hollowed halls of Hug History, and before the sun even had the chance to shine, Scott melted, burying his face in his only friend’s shoulder and breathing in deep.

“You don’t have to go anywhere, you can go back to sleep,” Woody whispered, and it was so easy then, with Scott’s heart racing and swelling with hope, to turn into Woody’s grasp. The kiss was soft and sweet, shyer than Scott could ever remember being,  and his woodsman gasped on top of him, entire body tensing all at once. Then like the winter snow melting into spring, he relaxed under Scott’s touch, opening up with a nervous but brilliantly daring grin.

From that night on, Scott found himself sharing his bed with the Woodsman, even if it meant that some mornings, he was kicked off the cot entirely. Justice was swift though, and many mornings, Woody woke with an angry pillow shoved in his face. 

They lived a simple but happy life, building something Scott never thought he could have and never would have expected. It was a far cry from the world he knew as king, but it was good. It was amazing, but it couldn’t last. Everything changed when they rolled into town on what should have been a routine visit. Every few weeks or so they would make the journey to sell their wares, and replenish the supplies the forest couldn’t offer them. This time was like no other.

The Queen of their kingdom had made a decree.

The banners had been posted across the market place, crude pictures of soldiers and weapons crossing across the parchment. Heralds called out the news for the majority of the townsfolk who couldn’t read, but every word of the looping, elegant script filled him with fear. War was coming and the Queen was raising an army. He could already hear the excited chatter of the townsfolk. All able-bodied men had to report, but there was adventure and the chance at a real wage, more than they’d ever earn as surfs paying tithes for their ruler.

Woody was among them, Scott could have kicked himself for being so naïve. He grabbed Scott by the shoulders, shaking him so hard his teeth practically rattled in his head. “You have to teach me! Not just sparring with sticks, I want to learn. Can you imagine? We can get out of this town, we’ll be rich. This is amazing!”

“There’s nothing noble about war, trust me.” He patted his friend’s shoulder, trying to lead him away from the crowd and back down to earth. “Kings and Queens are just people and they make horrible mistakes like anyone else. They don’t know any better than you.”

The Woodsman gaped, shocked anyone could dare say that about royalty and Scott was struck again by how young he was. He hadn’t even seen the world yet and any bitterness in him was tempered with equal parts enthusiasm and undirected energy. “You can’t say things like that. C’mon, this is going to be the best chance we have and I know you can teach me. You were a  _knight_ , right? Real nobility? You can make me an expert or…or you can come with me too?”

“You want me to go with you?” War was horrific, but if they went together and fought side by side, maybe they would make it through. They could protect each other.

Scott already had an advantage no one else on the battlefield could. No matter what happened, he knew he would be able to defend his friend.

“Yeah! And when we win, we’ll be heroes!”

Everything was simpler when shaded by optimism, or maybe it was greed. Scott didn’t know how he could dissuade the Woodsman’s ambition, but he knew how to distract it, at least for a while. “I’ve seen you fight, Woody. You’re more likely to stab yourself than anyone else.”

His only response was an impatient huff. “That’s why you’ll train me!”

“Easy there. You have to get good, otherwise putting you on the field’ll just help Her Majesty’s enemies.” 

The whole trip back home, Woody talked about the adventures and glory that awaited them and demanded a retelling of all of Scott’s most daring stories. The former king had more pressing concerns. The war wasn’t going anywhere, and registrations ended before the summer sun could rise. They only had a handful of months to train and that had never felt so short before.

“You worry too much, Beardy.” The Woodsman said, after a particularly grueling training session. He was stretched out on cool grass, watching the sky turn deep purples as the last of the day fled. “Why do you always worry?”

“Why do I worry about war?” Scott wanted to laugh, and he would, if the thought didn’t make him feel ill. “Because it’s war. No one wins. I’ve already seen too many friends die. Too many people I loved.”

He didn’t expect Woody to get to turn to face him, but it seemed the Woodsman had a way of exceeding all his expectations. Calloused hands grabbed his face, squishing at his cheeks and making him laugh, before Woody pulled him closer, into a kiss that lingered and burned. He’d written his name in Scott’s skin countless times, so eager to mark what was his, and it felt like he wanted to rediscover every brand, with one kiss. 

“That’s why you’re training me, so we can come home. You’re not going to lose me.” He nosed under the Scott’s jaw, planting careful kisses over his pulse. He tasted sweat on his tongue, exploring the smooth terrain of Scott’s skin with his lips as he pressed his mate into the earth. “I’d never leave you… I promise.”

Scott hoped it was a truth. He let himself stretch back and pulled Woody with him, ignoring the memories of long gone love to try something hopeful and new. He never thought that love could be possible again, but it was terrifyingly easy to fall. Woody wouldn’t let him retreat back into the numbness that he’d hidden himself in too long, forcing him to laugh and to try again. Time meant something again when he actually looked forward to the hours they’d spend together. He spread their clothes across the soft grass, gasping up against the woodsman as the light slipped behind the trees and the shadows spilled over them like liquid.

Maybe his curse was finally broken?

He couldn’t die at the end of a sword, but he could finally use that for something good. They would go to war together and find that glory his friend wanted so badly, but he would stand as Woody’s shield until they could find their way back home again.  _Home_. Maybe with this man, he could finally stop running and build a home again.

They trained every day with wooden swords the king built himself, pushing his friend with gentle lessons and the flat of his weapon that left welts no matter how careful they tried to be. At night when the bruises had magically healed from Scott’s body, he would carefully run his fingers down Woody’s skin and tend to the wounds with kisses and careful tumbles in their too-small bed. War was coming, but for a few months as autumn gave way to cold winter, they practiced and loved and laughed until they were both warm down to their toes. The world would change in the spring when the army finally moved, but until then, they had a heart, a home, and a blanket to hide under.

Spring came slowly and the snow melted back into green grass and new flowers. The town swelled with travelers on their way to answer their Queen’s summons. They brought trade with them, eager young men with pitchforks and rusted swords ready to defend their lands against all who stood against them. Scott knew they brought death with them when they rode, but he thought it would come with a blade or a mace, not with a cough.

They didn’t know when it started, a few falling ill before anyone knew the danger. It spiraled quickly, a rot of disease as young men sickened in the streets, bodies bloated and black as death claimed them before the healers could stop it. The townsfolk locked themselves in their homes, but there were too many bodies and no one left to bury them. Scott wrapped cloth around their faces filled with herbs and ash to protect them both, but the disease spread like divine retribution.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Woody hissed, awed into silence, and for the first time in his young life, he faced the meaning of mortality and was unprepared for its ruthlessness. Scott only wished the promise of war had been enough to convince him. They never should left their little home in the forest. They never should have thought of going to war. 

“No. No, never, we should go. Woody, please.”

“It’s fine. We’ll just…” The Woodsman didn’t have an answer, but he adjusted Scott’s makeshift scarf around his mouth. They answered to a proud knight who welcomed their service with an ashen frown and beady eyes. Woody made jokes the moment they were out of earshot, claiming Scott would make a better commanding officer any day. His good mood didn’t last. The evening before they were set to march to the next town, the knight passed away with a bloody cough. That same evening, Scott stole a steed and dragged his charge home.

“You’re being ridiculous, Beardy,” Woody insisted, but he was shaken to the bone. His hands were clammy, and Scott refused to think about how weak Woody’s grip around his waist was.

“That’s bad luck! That’s cursed luck. I would know. I…” Something was wrong with the town. Something was terribly wrong everywhere, and Scott’s chest ached, like a hand of ice had reached into him and bruised his heart. Suddenly, Woody’s chin was resting on his shoulder, the whiskers on his cheek brushing against Scott’s own. 

“You didn’t do this, you know.” It was enough for Scott to stop their horse, his expression crumbling, and Woody laughed in his ear. “You were with me the whole time. All over me. Really. You were  _way_  too busy to do any cursing. Besides, you got me a horse!”

Scott really was being ridiculous, but his heart no longer ached, and he let himself laugh. “You fool.”  He huffed, craning to catch a glimpse of his friend. Times like this gave him pause. It almost felt like Woody instinctively knew what he needed to hear, and there had only ever been one person he’d met who could do that. “We'll go. In a week, we’ll go. God willing.”

It was a good plan. Their home was coming into view, and the need to rest was overwhelming.

They didn’t have a week. The next day, Woody caught a fever.

Scott didn’t know how to help beyond cooling Woody’s face with a damp cloth and coaxing him to drink when he could keep something down. There was no one left to save them, the town was dying and all those who could run had fled, carrying disease with them. Scott begged God to spare his Woodsman, pleaded that his curse wouldn’t destroy anyone else, but the man just grew weaker. His body was swollen and blackening, blood flecking his lips every time he coughed. It happened too fast, it only took a handful of days to ravage Woody from healthy young man to dying husk barely able to draw breath past split and bleeding lips. All Scott could do was sit by the cot they’d shared together and cry, ignoring the burgeoning fever that had ignited in his own veins.

With a pained smile, the Woodsman’s eyes cleared and he ran his shaking hands through Scott’s curls almost reverently as the former king tried not to let his friend see the fear and grief on his face. “You’re going to be okay.”

“D-don’t. Don’t say things like that. You’re going to get better, we’re not giving up. Your fever is going to break any minute now and-“

“Stop.  _Scott_ , stop.” He traced his hands down the other man’s face like he was trying to remember the line of his jaw and the slope of his nose. A tear streaked down his ruined cheek. “I told you that I’d always be at your side, my king.” His chest rattled and his eyes slid closed as Scott sat in stunned silence, mind screaming inside.

King _._ He’d never told Woody the truth or his name. The only way he could have known…

“Stiles?! Stiles! Oh my god, y-you can’t. Stiles please, you can’t leave me again. Please wake up, I love you! Stiles,  _please_.” He howled his pain until he couldn’t breathe, throat torn raw with his grief. He should have known with how easy it was to slip beside the Woodsman and build a life together like they were two halves finding their whole. After all these years, he’d found the one person he’d loved more than anything reborn and had lost him just as they’d known each other again. The yawning madness threatened to swallow him back down into nothing as he crawled in bed beside the body of his Woodsman, his knight, his best friend, and hoped that the fever would take them both.

Scott didn’t want to wake, but his fever broke sooner than he’d expected. The gods, if there were any, had no shortage of miracles for him, or perhaps they only shared their hatred. His best friend was unrecognizable in what was left of the corpse, but Scott was wracked with guilt, wondering how he’d let something so obvious slip through his grasp. He’d been given another chance, but fate had taken it away just as quickly.

His legs were kitten weak, but the stench drove him from the house and the incessant buzzing of a thousand flies rang through his mind. There wasn’t anything left of his best friend, but Stiles deserved a burial.  _Woody._

He didn’t even have a real name to put on a headstone. How strange it was that he could love someone he’d barely known so well, how strange that he knew nothing about him but somehow knew everything that mattered. He should have known.

There was so much he couldn’t give Stiles, so much he deserved, a life of glory and adventure, a hundred years of happiness. Without him, their tiny home was nothing but a shell. It hurt him to look at it. Scott couldn’t lift a shovel, but he could start a fire. Stiles deserved the warrior’s burial he never got in his first life, labeled a traitor and a monster. So Scott started a funeral pyre, and thought about what it had been like, staring out from the middle of it, begging for everything to stop.

He scavenged for food, slowly making his way into town, but when he arrived, it was already too late. There was no one who could help him. There wasn’t a single living soul left. It was the same story in every town, in every village. Only the dead and dying were there to greet him. Scott heard them laughing at him as he went. It was the end of the world, and it was his job to watch it fade. 

  
  


He was incredibly tall and had thick curly hair, like a cherub. Maybe at one time he’d been a basketball player, or someone who liked to dangle hats over his shorter friends’s heads. Scott didn’t know who he was, but he knew how he died. There were honestly a thousand, carefully administered cuts across his arms and torso, but what clenched it were his bloody eye sockets and the blood stains on his chest where his heart had been stabbed.

And here he was, draped across Scott’s jogging route, the most macabre present. Scott clenched his fist, nails digging dark crescents into his palm, hard enough to draw blood. If he’d been a little quicker the night before, he’d have been able to confirm his suspicions with the other murder, but the police had gotten there sooner. He couldn’t touch the body directly, not without disturbing the CSI unit’s work, and even now he was too close, but he leaned in just a little further, holding a simple bracelet with a string of tiny white opals in front of him. They bled crimson in confirmation. 

Before he could do much more, someone behind him screamed. Two seconds later, there was a yell of, “Someone call 911!”

Scott sighed a curse and dragged a hand through his sweaty hair. Great, just what he needed today. There was too much to do and he’d be wasting time in the police station trying to convince a bunch of brain dead cops that he hadn’t seen anything except the body itself. Someone had gone out of their way to set this up. He could just bolt, but there was too many loose threads in this town to leave it all behind now. Settling in a few dozen feet from the body, Scott sat down to wait for the police.

They didn’t keep him waiting for long, all it took was a gruesome serial killer to motivate them to show up. Scott was less than impressed when he was “invited” back to the station to answer questions and ushered into the interrogation room with false smiles and offers of snacks. Of course they regarded him as a suspect now, they didn’t have any other leads. If he had anything to do with it, he’d keep it that way.

Outside of the one way glass, Detective Stiles Stilinski watched their would-be perp inside with a thoughtful frown. He didn’t look much like a killer and there’d been no weapons found on him or anywhere near by when the police arrived. It didn’t mean he couldn’t have stashed it along with the corpse’s bloody trophies before anyone had seen, but this young man didn’t seem like he could have fit any sort of weapon in his jogging outfit. Not that he was noticing anything like that!

He jumped as his partner cleared her throat beside him, staring so openly at the handsome suspect that he’d forgotten all about her. “What?” Stiles snapped defensively.

“You going to go talk to him or are you just going to keep trying to x-ray vision his ass out of his pants?” She said with a smirk as Stiles only scowled back.

“I’m  _not_ , I’m just thinking. He looks sort of suspicious, I saw him at the other crime scene too. That can’t be a coincidence, this…what’s his name. Scott McCall? He’s involved in this somehow.”

Malia rolled her eyes, flipping through her book of notes. “Two events is a coincidence, you forget how much you like that stupid saying? And if you bothered to read the preliminary statement, you’d have known the body was killed four hours ago, right when Mr. McCall was in the middle of class at the University with a lecture hall full of students who can vouch for him. Apparently, he was giving some kind of presentation on…” She flipped to a second page. “Medical practices during the black plague. Ugh, sounds horrific. He’s not our guy.”

“I’m telling you he’s involved, Tate! Just look at him sitting there all suspiciousy.”

“You’re doing that thing where you’re making up words again. Get in there and interview him, but send him home when you’re done. He’s an innocent kid and you don’t need to be wasting resources on dead ends.”

“But-”

“No butts, especially not his.” Malia squinted knowingly. “Your interview is being taped, remember? Try not to hit on the grad student please, that’s too much paperwork for me.”

Stiles made a rude gesture and turned back to the window, watching this Scott McCall intensely. He was never one to ignore a gut feeling and something about this guy was off. Whatever Scott was hiding, Stiles was going to find it. If it happened to be in his pants, that wasn’t Stiles’s fault.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find Dans's awesome fics [here](http://nevertrustastilesthing.tumblr.com/)
> 
> You can read Rune's stuff [Here](http://fightingforthepack.tumblr.com/) and find her on tumblr at [ Runicscribbles](http://runicscribbles.tumblr.com)


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